CHAPTER VIII
HOW TOM BRAVED THE TORIES
“COLE!”
A movement of the giant slave’s eyes showed that he heard. He and his young master had dismounted upon the edge of a clump of woods and were carefully surveying a large brick mansion that stood in the midst of a well-kept park.
“I don’t like the looks of things,” said the young swamp-rider. “There are strangers in Mr. Foster’s mansion, Cole, and we had better be sure of who they are before we venture into the open.”
Cole signified his entire approval of this course; so they tied their horses well among the trees and then crawled back to the verge of the wood once more.
Some months had passed since the defeat of Gates; Colonel Marion had now begun to make himself felt in the struggle, and his sudden ambuscades and unlooked-for onslaughts had made his name a terror to British soldier and Tory alike. Not a little of the credit of all this was due to the devotion to duty shown by Tom Deering and his faithful slave. The hoof-marks of Sultan and Cole’s bay charger, Dando, were imprinted upon every mile of territory between the North Edisto River and the Little Peedee. The courses of the Congaree and the Wateree were as familiar to them as though there were not a fresh danger lurking in every turn they made.
They had the hardihood to even penetrate the region about Orangeburg and Ninety-Six in search of information as to the enemy’s movements; and the news which they gathered frequently led to disaster for the British in the shape of a severe loss of supplies, or the destruction of a flying column proceeding upon a raid.
While Tom Deering was willing to take any risks and dare any peril to serve his country, still it is doubtful if he would have been so eager, so tireless in his efforts if it had not been that the thought of his father goaded him on. He knew that until the Americans retook Charleston there would be little chance of his being able to rescue the prisoner; and so he was willing to take his life in his hands at any hour of the day or night in the hope that by so doing he might hasten the hour.
In his excursions Tom had discovered many things of a surprising nature. One of these was the fact that there were still some of the partisans of congress who were, as yet, in possession of their estates. As a rule these were very rich and very cautious men; and one of them was Mr. Foster, who owned and cultivated great stretches of land between the Congaree and Columbia. This rich planter had from time to time provided the young scout with valuable information. It was a search for this very desirable requisite of intelligent warfare that brought our two friends upon the edge of the Foster plantation to-day.
“From the appearance of the horses,” said Tom, “the visitors are not soldiers. It may be some of our own brigade, Cole.”
But the black gestured his doubt of this. Through long practice he had become master of a sort of sign language, and could readily communicate his thoughts to his young master.
“Tories,” signaled Cole.
“No, no,” said Tom, “they would not dare disturb Mr. Foster. Why, Cornwallis himself has not deemed it wise to do that.”
“Tories,” signaled Cole, once more, and this time very positively. “Tories will do anything!”
Tom laughed.
“You are right in one way, Cole,” said he. “There is not much of a blackguardly or bloody nature that they have left undone, in this section at least. But, all the same, in this case I think you’re wrong.”
But Cole remained obdurate; he seemed most unwilling to change his views. They were still discussing the situation, Tom in low, guarded tones and Cole in his not very deft sign language, when suddenly there came a strange, smothered sound from overhead, followed by a crashing of a heavy body through the boughs of a tree, and a man, with a cry of fear upon his lips, tumbled to the ground at their feet.
Like a flash Cole had produced his heavy pistol and presented it at the man’s head; but Tom pushed it quickly aside.
“It is Dogberry,” said he, quietly. “Put up your weapon, Cole.”
Cole glanced at the newcomer, and then a broad grin of recognition spread across his face. It was a negro slave belonging to the Foster place, and he lay flat upon his back, staring at them with great, round eyes, while an expression of mingled fear, amazement and doubt rested upon his ebony countenance.
“Well, Dogberry,” said Tom, laughing at the negro’s remarkable entrance on the scene. “Suppose you tell us all about this.”
“Mars Tom,” said Dogberry, sitting up, “is dis you, sah?”
“Of course it is. And here’s Cole, too.”
“Lawsee! I done gone ’most broke my black head!” Dogberry stared up into the tree. “Just look how far I fall, Mars Tom. Just you look up there, sah.”
“How came you up in the tree?”
“Mars Foster put me there, sah.”
“Mr. Foster. Impossible.”
“’Deed he did, Mars Tom. I’se telling you de plain truth. He put me up there when de Tory white men comes along to-day.”
“Tories!” exclaimed Tom. “Where?”
“They am up at de house, sah, at dis moment. And they am carrying on scand’lus with de fambly.”
“But what were you sent into the tree for?”
“To watch for you, sah. Mars Foster sort of thought you’d be along dis way to-day, Mars Tom; and I was told to climb up in de tree and watch for you, and not let you go up to de house, and get cotched by de Tories.”
“Thank you, Mr. Foster.” Tom waved one hand in the direction of the planter’s mansion. “I’ll remember that of you, and will return the favor some day.”
Cole began to make rapid passes and signs to Dogberry; the latter, at the best, was much in dread of the giant dumb-slave, but just now Cole’s earnestness made him very terrible in the other’s eyes, indeed. Cole was asking how Dogberry, if he was watching in the tree, failed to note their approach and neglected to make his presence known to them. Very much frightened at Cole’s gestures, Dogberry clung to Tom.
“Don’t let dat nigger harm me, Mars Tom. Look at dar! He’s making a sign dat he’ll frow me over de fence!”
At this Cole burst into a gale of laughter; and then Tom explained.
“He wants to know why I was in de tree and didn’t make no sound?” Dogberry looked exceedingly foolish, and then continued: “De plain truth, Mars Tom, is dat dis nigger done gone went to sleep, and didn’t wake till a great big yaller-tailed hornet come along and stung him on de nose.”
“That accounts for your sudden arrival, then,” smiled the young partisan. “But, tell me, Dogberry, how many Tories are at your master’s place?”
Dogberry’s knowledge of numbers was exceedingly limited; so he slowly and laboriously counted nine upon his fingers and held them up.
“Just dis many, sah, and dey am having dreadful carryings on. De ladies of de fambly is most frightened out of dey wits.”
“Nine, eh!” Tom looked reflectively at Cole and the giant held out his great arms and smiled. There were none too many in his estimation. But his master was doubtful. Tom had partaken of Marion’s caution; he had seen so much of the Swamp-Fox’s success based upon mere carefulness, that he began to give caution a place beside courage in the list of qualities necessary to a soldier.
“How are they armed?” he asked the negro.
“Dey have swords, sah, like yours; and dey have guns—one apiece, for I counted dem. I see dem standing on de lawn under de apple tree.”
“On the lawn under the apple tree!” repeated Tom, his eyes lighting. “Are you sure of that, Dogberry?”
“Yes, sah. Dat’s where I saw ’em put dere guns. And I s’pose dey’s there still.”
“The lawn has no windows overlooking it from the ground floor, Cole,” said Tom slowly. “If we could get those guns we might make an important capture.”
Instantly Cole began to signal to be allowed to try to secure them.
“No, no,” said Tom, “we must be sure that things are as stated. Dogberry may be mistaken, or he may have forgotten something.”
At this Dogberry’s eyes grew large and bright with sudden recollection. “Dar, now!” ejaculated he, “I did forgot something, sah. When dem Tories come up to de place dey have some prisoners wif dem.”
“Prisoners!”
“Yes, sah. And dey’s locked up in de barn at this minute.”
“Very well, Dogberry, you may return to the house. Try and get word to Mr. Foster that you have seen us; but be careful and don’t let the Tories hear you.”
“No, sah; ’deed I won’t. I’ll be careful, sah.” Dogberry slowly made his way through the woods until he reached the main road; then he approached the house carelessly as though, possibly, just coming back from his work on some distant part of the plantation.
Cole and Tom formed their plans instantly. They must release the prisoners, and if possible they must secure what ammunition the Tories possessed, for Marion was so badly in need of it that even a few rounds would be welcome. It was well known that the Tories were always well supplied with powder and shot; the king furnished it to them, not grudgingly as he did to his regular troops, but freely; and they used it in a corresponding fashion.
“I’ll manage to get the rifles out of their reach,” said Tom to Cole. “You slip around to the barn and see if you can liberate the men. If there is a guard over them, which most likely there will be, dispose of him quietly. I need not tell you to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, for I know that you will do that, anyway.”
Cole nodded his understanding of his master’s instructions and moved softly away; but in a moment he turned and came back.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, in surprise.
Cole held out his hand; the gesture was more eloquent than any words could have been; it spoke of the friendship and love that existed between master and man, of the affection that began in childhood and would only end in death. Tom’s eyes filled with tears; he grasped the outstretched hand tightly.
“Forgive me, Cole,” said he, “for not thinking of it first. We are going into danger, and either of us, or both, may not come out of it alive. If this should prove the case: good-bye.”
Then they separated; Cole stole away toward the back of the house, keeping his huge frame well concealed behind the tree trunks and thick bush. The barn was a large structure, not a great distance from the house, and as he came in view of the big doors Cole saw a man standing, leaning upon the muzzle of a rifle and staring toward the mansion.
Tom set about his work as cautiously as the slave; he crept along behind the bush and a stone fence until he reached a spot almost directly in line with the old apple tree which Dogberry had mentioned. It stood almost in the centre of the lawn; a few rustic seats were at the foot, for it formed a delightful place for a rest upon a hot afternoon.
“And there are the Tories’ rifles, sure enough,” muttered the lad. “No one seems left to watch over them; so I’d best make the move quickly, for there will hardly be a better opportunity.”
After a long, last look about to see that no one was observing him, Tom broke from cover and boldly stepped out across the lawn toward the tree where the guns were standing. He deemed it best to attempt the thing boldly; for as it was broad day cunning would be thrown away. The rifles were of the variety provided by the king to his loyal subjects in North America, and were rather heavy. Tom took up the entire nine, however, having left his own light fowling-piece behind in the bush; it was rather a heavy load, but the lad was strong and toughened by constant outdoor exercise, so he managed to carry them off back along the track by which he had approached, and concealed them in a safe place.
Not a sound was to be heard anywhere save the low, moaning chant of some slaves at work in a far-off field, and an occasional outburst of rude laughter from the mansion. There was no sign of Cole; Tom stole to a position from which he could view the barn. He, too, saw the man with a rifle, on guard before the big door.
“A man on the watch, as I supposed there would be,” muttered the boy. “I don’t think Cole will be able to approach him unseen. But, I wonder——”
He paused suddenly, for the guard at the barn door had moved slightly and afforded a clearer view of his face.
“It’s Cole!” breathed Tom, excitedly. “Good for him!”
He watched for a few moments; but the colossal negro did not move; he might have been asleep on his feet, so quietly did he stand. A renewed burst of laughter just then came from the house and drew Tom’s attention from him for a moment. When his gaze returned once more, Cole had vanished!
Tom could not believe his eyes for a moment; but a second glance proved to him that the first had been right. There did not seem to be any place near at hand behind which Cole could conceal himself; and Tom was greatly puzzled.
“However,” he muttered, after a time spent in waiting for the great negro to reappear, “wherever Cole is he’ll render a good account of himself; so I need not worry about it.”
He made his way back to the front of the Foster house. The lawn was still deserted; no one was in sight, but the boisterous laughter of the Tories within showed that they were still carrying through their, apparently, fixed plan of revelry.
“I’d like to get a view of what’s going on,” said the lad to himself. “Mr. Foster has done me many favors and been of great assistance to General Marion and the cause; so I’d risk a great deal to help him in any way that I could.”
The more he pondered the matter the more he felt inclined to approach the house; it was a daring thing to do, but a scout for the Swamp-Fox must become accustomed to daring deeds, and Tom had had his share of them.
“If only Cole were here,” thought he, “I would not hesitate a minute. But here goes anyhow; I’ll trust to luck, for this once, though the colonel would be against that sort of thing if he were here. He says always be sure of your aim and of what you are about to strike, before dealing the blow.”
He had started for the house while he was still speaking; as noticed before, there were no windows overlooking the lawn from the first floor; so there was no danger of being overseen in this way; but, still, there was a wide doorway leading out upon a long veranda; some one might come out and discover him at any moment.
He did not breathe freely until he reached the shelter of the walls, against which clung and climbed a thick growth of honeysuckle. This, at least, would afford a slight concealment; and he worked his way slowly along until he was in position to see any one who came out of the house by the front door.
“It’s good that the vine is thick and rather loose at the bottom,” said Tom, drawing the tendrils about him. “It would be a ticklish thing to stand here without any cover at all.”
He stood there for some little time, debating as to what his next move should be. He had concluded that a venture around the corner of the house would be about the best thing he could do, when suddenly there came a sharp metallic click, followed by the sound of a closing door. Tom’s heart beat loudly against his ribs; he peeped through the screen of vine leaves toward the veranda.
A tall young girl stood there; she was attired in white, and her dark eyes were flashing with resentment; there was a hot flush upon her cheeks, as she threw out her arms, in a gesture of anger, and exclaimed:
“Oh, how long is this to last! how long is it to last! They are brutes to treat my father so; to be taken prisoner by the enemy would not be near so bad.”
“It’s Lucy,” said Tom to himself, as he recognized Mr. Foster’s daughter. “And something unpleasant is happening, just as I thought.”
“If I were only a man!” whispered the girl passionately. “If I only had brothers, we should see how long these cowards would infest my father’s house.”
There was a short, clear whistle by which Tom attracted the attention of the Foster household before he ventured into the open upon his visits. It was a signal well known to Mr. Foster, Lucy and the more trustworthy of the slaves; and Tom now placed his fingers to his lips and whistled the notes softly.
Lucy started as the sound struck her ear; with quick steps she came forward to the rail of the veranda and leaned forward eagerly. Tom was just about to step from his place of concealment behind the vines, when the door opened and closed swiftly, and Mark Harwood stood upon the veranda at Lucy Foster’s side.
The girl went pale and caught her breath; Tom shrank back among the vines, clutching the pistol which he had taken the precaution to bring with him.
“Miss Lucy,” spoke Mark Harwood.
Anger sparkled in the girl’s eye as he addressed her; it was clear that she held him in great aversion. Mark’s face showed the same sly, crafty, smiling expression as of yore; and he rubbed his hands together as he stood there, exciting in his Cousin Tom’s breast an indignant desire to come out and kick him.
“Why have you left the room and your father’s guests?” inquired Mark.
“My father’s guests!” Lucy turned upon him a look of scorn.
“They are all your father’s friends, are they not?”
“They are his enemies,” returned the girl, “and well you know it, Mark Harwood.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Mark, “because you know that I——”
“I also know you to be his enemy,” flashed the young lady.
“Lucy!” his voice was filled with injured surprise.
“Oh, don’t use that tone to me! It does not deceive me for a moment. You are a king’s man—a Tory—a spy of Cornwallis. Even at this moment you are here in the British general’s pay, to collect any evidence that may be injurious to my poor father.”
“You are mistaken, Lucy. You do me an injustice. It is true that I am loyal to the king——”
“Yes, and to prove your loyalty you place yourself at the head of a band of men who would be a disgrace to the most barbarous country; they kill, burn, and destroy the lives and possessions of inoffensive persons, and you take pride in it, Mark Harwood; your boasts have reached my ears, even here!”
He looked at her for a moment; the offensive smile gradually faded from his face and a bitter look took its place. He saw that his pretensions did not throw her off her guard, so he showed his true colors.
“So you have heard of some of my doings,” laughed he, savagely. “Well, I can’t say that it has affected you greatly.”
“If you mean that your deeds have not frightened me, you are right. I do not fear you, Mark Harwood, and I never shall.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” sneered he. “Stranger things have happened. This is a nest of rebels, and——”
“Prove it.”
“Your father’s refusal to aid the cause of the king is proof enough.”
“Take care,” said Lucy, bravely. “Do not go too far. Remember that my father has powerful friends in England—friends who will not desert him if he is in need.”
“Do you suppose that I don’t know that? His influence has been all that saved him a dozen times or more. But he is a rebel, and you are a rebel; don’t deny it.”
“I cannot speak for my father,” exclaimed Lucy, “but I can for myself. I love liberty and hate the tyrannies of the king.”
“Brave girl!” exclaimed the concealed Tom, incautiously.
The sound of his voice reached Mark’s ears, but not the substance of the words.
“What was that?” said the young Tory, his face paling slightly. But Lucy gazed steadfastly away and did not answer.
“Did you not hear something like a voice?”
She made no reply; he listened for a moment and then went half-way down the broad stone steps that led to the veranda, and looked about searchingly. Tom flattened himself against the wall of the house; the thick, odorous runners of the vine hung in a heavy screen before him, effectually hiding him from Mark’s prying eyes. At length the latter returned to the veranda, but his suspicions were aroused, and he looked at Lucy from under his frowning brows.
“Did you hear a voice?” inquired he.
But still she did not answer; he bit his lip vexedly, then laughed.
“Do you know,” said he, “when I stood just inside the door there, before coming out, I heard voices. Who were you talking to?”
“I was talking to myself,” said Lucy, truthfully.
“A likely story,” he sneered. “However, if there is any one lurking about here I’ll beat him out like a rabbit.” He turned to the door and paused with his hand upon the catch. “And, by the way, Miss Lucy,” he continued, “you need not trouble yourself to warn your friend the rebel, if there is one near at hand; for it will do no good. We’ll catch him if he were as elusive as the Swamp-Fox, himself.”
Then the door closed behind him; Lucy with her breath catching in sobs of fright, sprang down the steps.
“Where are you?” she cried.
“Here,” answered Tom, stepping from his hiding-place.
“You are in great danger,” panted Lucy.
“I heard all,” said the boy, quietly.
“Run,” she cried. “They will have no mercy, if they take you.”
“I should expect none in that event.”
The tramp of feet sounded in the hall, coming toward the door.
“They are coming,” exclaimed the poor, frightened girl. “Oh, what will you do?”
“Calm yourself. If you look as frightened as all that they will be assured that they are upon the scent of something. Be brave; I know you can do it, Lucy, if you want to.”
He was unable to say more before the door opened. He turned and ran rapidly and softly until he rounded the corner of the house at the upper side. A group of fierce, hectoring men, with sabres belted at their waists, trooped out at the heels of Mark Harwood.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the latter, “I’m pretty sure that there is a skulking rebel concealed about here somewhere. Scatter, and run your blades into every bush. We’ll be sure to stir him out of his hiding.”
The Tories did as directed, while Lucy stood watching them from the steps. She seemed calm enough; but the twitching of her mouth and the light in her eyes showed the fear that was almost overwhelming her. However, she had no cause for immediate fear, for the very daring of Tom Deering had, by this time, placed him out of pressing danger.
Upon the upper side of the house were a number of long, narrow windows, set with diamond shaped panes of glass. These opened from the dining-room; and at the very first one, upon turning the corner of the house, the lad saw the black, scared face of the slave Dogberry, looking down at him.
“Goodness me!” Dogberry stared with all his might. “Am dat really you, Mars Tom?”
“Yes; who’s there with you, Dogberry?”
“Not anybody, sah. They all just now rush out to cotch you.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Tom Deering sprang up, caught the ledge of the window and drew himself up. He had just vanished, through the window, when the first Tory rounded the corner.